The Walking Wounded
by MagickBeing
Summary: Harry did not feel a rushing sense of pity, or love. Nor did he suddenly realize how beautiful Draco was. He did, however, acknowledge the light in his eyes. — ONESHOT. PLEASE R&R.


**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and co. are property of J.K. Rowling and her various publishers. No copyright infringement was intended.

**A/N: **Please R&R. I haven't written anything in a long time, obviously, so this is kind of exciting for me.

*

**Walking Wounded**

by MagickBeing

He didn't know where it would happen, or when. He only knew that it would. It was as inevitable as the sun and moon—somewhere, sometime on this battle field, he would find someone that would save him. He would find someone that would offer him everything.

Life.

Glory.

But, more importantly, death.

Until then, he fought. He fought as hard and as fast and as _best _as he could. But he did not fight for himself. He did not fight for others. He simply fought because he was told to, and because he had been told to his entire life. It wasn't necessarily as much of a decision as it was a reflex.

A simple reflex.

Someone fired at him—a bright light from behind that he missed, not because of skill but rather luck. So much of this was luck, for the supposed enemy, the "light", had given up their virtue.

They had promised, once, not to succumb to _their _level—His level.

They had promised, once, only to fight to defend, to save. They had promised to let others surrender, if they had so chosen to. They had promised to let them walk away, with the weight of shame on their shoulders as punishment, knowing very well what would happen to them if their surrender was found by their own side. But that had been so long ago, and since, they had given up fighting fair. No longer did they accept surrenders, killing as quickly and efficiently as possible.

They had put reflex before thought, death before life, hate before love.

They were like him, but with one difference. He was willing to admit he was a murderer, a failure, a _sinner, _whereas they were not.

And now their name lay tarnished on the ground, broken and covered in blood they had sworn not to spill. Their _light _was but a mere flicker of what it had once been, an illusion kept by hypocrisy and misplaced hope. The only thing that separated them—the "light" and the "dark"—were their clothing. Their cause was but a mere echo of what it had once been, a whisper of a promise made long ago.

He turned. And fired, the words quick and tasteless.

A dark haired girl crumpled to the ground.

Behind her, one of his own fell; a man with dark robes and a mask.

He smiled and raised his hand, speaking death's tongue.

And so another person fell.

He worked his way further into the opening, bodies crumpling around him. Sons, daughters, mothers and fathers—all dead. And no one spared a second glance.

He dodged another light, the glow unusual and sporadic. Instead of killing him where he stood, someone had challenged him. Someone wanted to fight, not just to kill, but to fight. He smiled behind his mask, skin stiff and sweaty.

It was happening.

Finally.

He reached up and removed his mask, dropping it to the ground beside him and what they had once stood for.

And he turned.

*

He watched in silence as the man removed his mask, dropping it to the ground beside him. His hood fell correspondingly, revealing a wave of light hair.

Harry Potter straightened where he stood. Across the broken promises and lifeless bodies, green eyes met gray. In that split second, Harry noticed several things. Draco Malfoy had changed very little. His hair was a little longer, and his face was flushed from adrenaline and heat, but as pale and gaunt as ever.

Harry did not feel a rushing sense of pity, or love.

Nor did he suddenly realize how beautiful Draco was.

He did, however, acknowledge the light in his eyes.

There was a spark there that Harry hadn't seen in anyone's eyes in a long time. Even his comrades.. even they had become the walking wounded, the lifeless living. Harry may have been their supposed savior, but he was not their leader. He had not chosen this path. It had been forced upon him from birth, and regrettably, there were decisions that had not been choices but rather necessities. He was very aware that their cause was not what it had once been. Oh, they still believed—they still believed they were fighting for the greater good, but Harry was very aware that if, when this ended, those that had fought would be but empty shells of what was.

Maybe they _were _fighting for the greater good. But at what cost? For many, it would be as if they had never fought at all, but instead given in.

He raised his hand.

His opponent offered him a nod and a glimmer of a smirk, a challenge in its self.

Harry clenched his jaw.

And the other raised his wand.

Harry did not want to kill Draco. Or rather, he didn't want to _just _kill Draco. He wanted that rush of adrenaline again. He wanted to feel alive and focused, not like the empty, automatic shell he had been. Of course he still knew what he had to do. And he was confident he would do it. But, to his knowledge, Voldemort had not stepped onto the battle field yet. Instead, he was sitting somewhere, watching his pawns move across the board, sacrificing themselves in his name.

Harry would know when he was here, with him. But until then, he needed something to challenge him, keep him awake and alive in the midst of death's shadow.

He _needed _this.

Draco.

And so they fought.

They were admittedly well matched, both holding back at first and slowly giving in. Each move was well thought, and each man tried thinking two moves ahead. They were locked in a battle of will and power, and even though Draco narrowly avoided death several times, they both knew who would win.

It was just a question of when.

_**Fini.**_


End file.
